To Aid the Ailing
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Standalone ficlet featuring a sick Sam and a caring Dean. Oneshot.


By: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Standalone ficlet featuring a sick Sam and a caring Dean.

A/N: Again… found it in my hard drive, couldn't resist sharing. Reviews are love.

Timeline: Can place anytime, really. As the summary describes, standalone. Before John dies or after. It's just a brotherly moment.

To Aid the Ailing 

In between jobs was a great place to be.

Sam's thought was only semi-delusional as he collapsed onto the motel bed heavily. They had no place to be, nothing that needed to be done. Nobody needed saving. Yeah, this was good.

"You okay over there, Sammy?" His brother called lightly. Sam could hear the concern in his voice. It was covered well with humor and casualness, but Sam had known Dean his whole life, and could certainly detect the hidden emotion.

"Fine." He choked, but even as he said it, he fought away the increasing need to vomit.

"You sure?" He asked, and Sam heard him take a seat on his own bed. "'Cause you're looking a little pale."

Sam didn't respond and he hoped his brother would get the message. It really was a simple one; talking bad. Sleep good.

His big brother was a dense, stubborn guy. "Sammy?"

"Sam." He corrected.

"Sammy." Dean decided. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"Then why don't you let me?" His voice was pleading.

"You sick?" Dean sounded honestly taken aback by the notion. Not that that surprised Sam. Winchester's weren't supposed to get sick.

They were in upstate New York, having just fought a poltergeist a few towns over. Normally the icy cold winter weather wouldn't have bothered Sam, but if you took into account the fact that their last gig had been one in Florida. Not five days ago, mind you. Well, it was apparent Sam didn't do abrupt climate changes too well.

"Sammy?" Dean called when he didn't respond.

"Yes already." Sam finally snapped. "I'm sick. You can mock my weak immune system tomorrow. I'd really like to sleep now."

So that had been a little harsher than he had intended; at least he had gotten his point across. He heard Dean sigh, but rolled over, hopefully indicating that he really did want to rest. He could apologize for acting like a dick tomorrow.

Although he probably wouldn't. Dean would understand.

Some undetermined amount of time later, he was halfway between the sleeping and the waking world. That beautiful place you could escape to, that allowed you to rest without dreaming. Sam wished he could give this place a name and move in here for the rest of his life. It really was something akin to perfection.

A coughing fit broke through his paradise only moments after he'd had the thought. Quite obviously, he had jinxed himself.

He wasn't sure if was grateful for the sickness or not. If nothing else, it kept his nightmares at bay. Yet it also kept sleep away. Oh, all the things he could bitch about...

"Sit up." Dean's voice was lightly commanding.

Sam hadn't expected it. He'd figured Dean had gone to sleep, or decided to ignore his crabby baby brother.

"Why?" He groaned, but attempted to comply nonetheless. The world titled on it's axis, and Sam felt like his head was swimming.

Dean's hand behind his back was the only thing supporting him. Saving him from falling. His big brother the superhero.

"Take these." He shoved two white pills and a bottle of water in Sam's direction. Sam followed the orders without complaint.

"How ya feeling?" Dean's voice was amazingly gentle. Gentle for Dean anyway. It was either that, or the sky-rocketing fever; or some combination of the two, that prompted him to answer honestly.

"Like crap on toast." His eyes were closed, so he didn't get to see his brother's facial response to that, but he could easily detect the amusement in his voice.

"Is that so?" He didn't hold back a chuckle.

"I heard some French guy say it on TV once." Sam explained, and that made total sense in his mind. "Sounded...appropriate."

"In layman's terms Sammy," Dean said. "What does crap on toast feel like?"

"Shit." Sam answered, because he no longer wanted to play the 'who can be more sarcastic than who?' game. "I feel like shit."

Dean's hand was on his forehead a moment later. Part of Sam wanted to shrug it away, insist that he stop treating him like a baby. It was the part of him that had formed somewhere around puberty. When Sammy had changed to Sam. It was the part of him that was currently more or less outweighed by a killer headache, a churning stomach and that perpetually dizzy feeling.

"You're burning up." Dean's voice was low, and Sam wondered if he had meant to say it out loud at all.

Add fever to that growing list of bitchable things.

Bitchable, he thought and snorted silently to himself. When you're sick, you gain the right to make up words.

He felt Dean leave his bedside, only to return a few moments later. Sam felt the bed shift with his weight when he sat down next to him. A cool cloth was draped over his forehead. And it felt fantastic.

"You're being very mother-ish." Sam commented, with his eyes still closed, wanting to break through the silence.

"You complaining?" Dean questioned lightly.

Sam chuckled. "Nah...just saying, you haven't acted like this since we were kids..."

"Since you were a kid." Dean corrected with arrogance. "I was never a kid."

Sam sighed, that was true. "Four years of normal." He reminded anyway.

"Okay, I was never a kid with you, then." Dean corrected himself and Sam could sense the eye roll.

This was how Winchester's had serious conversations.

"You hate me for that?" Sam was glad he could blame his catching voice on the sickness.

"Sammy..." Dean sounded suddenly sad. "No. I don't blame you, kiddo."

Sam wondered if he used the nickname on purpose, to make a point, or if it had simply been inadvertent.

"'Cause you could." He went on, and he had no idea why he was pushing it. Perhaps he was slightly delusional. "You took care of me a lot, and I just left. Went to college."

"Well, you didn't get those four years." Dena said, his tone simple.

"Still..." Sam trailed off. "You should hate me..."

"Man, you get self-deprecating when you're sick." Dean exclaimed, readjusting the washcloth on his forehead.

"Big word." Sam snorted.

"Yeah, that was totally the point." He said sarcastically.

"Hey Dean," He said.

"What?"

"I..." Sam did have something important to say. Really he did. It just got lost somewhere in the depths of his, suddenly incredibly angry, stomach. "Crap."

He bolted from the bed, ignoring the waves of dizziness that threatened to consume him. He managed to make it to the toilet before emptying the contents of his stomach.

It lasted way too long. His bout of sickness. His throat was burning and his stomach recoiling. He hadn't been sick like this in years. Years which had dulled the memories of just how painful this could be.

His head throbbed dangerously every time his stomach lurched. His headache was increasing through the exertion. He wondered briefly if he had been this sick earlier, and he had just been ignoring it. Or if it had gotten worse.

He felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, but could not bring himself to look up from his position in the tiled floor.

"Sammy..." Dean trailed off.

Sam was going to respond, but found the bile in his throat had a much more persuasive argument, as he turned again for the porcelain bowl.

When he finished - quickly, mostly because there was nothing left in his stomach to actually get rid of - his eyes were stinging.

"Dude," Dean commented gently. "That's gross."

Sam chuckled painfully, but reached up to flush the toilet anyway. He sat with his back against the hard surface of it.

If he didn't move, and took deep, controlled breaths, his stomach stayed calm, and his head didn't feel as though it were going to split in two.

"You should go back to bed." Dean didn't even bother asking if he was okay. Something for which Sam was incredibly grateful.

"I don't wanna move." He declared.

"I know," His brother said understandingly. "But you'll be more comfortable there, alright?"

Sam just hung his head low, and bit his lip at the arrival of another wave of pain through his skull.

"Aspirin." Sam demanded, not lifting his head.

"You had two," Dean reminded. "just a couple minutes ago."

"Doesn't feel like it." Sam only vaguely recalled swallowing the pills. He was hoping his brother had somehow forgotten about them.

"Come on," he coaxed. "You just need to sleep."

"I'll sleep here." Sam decided. It wasn't such an uncomfortable position. And it sure as hell beat the thought of moving.

"No, you won't." Dean countered. "Come on," he kneeled down, eye level with, well, the top of Sam's head.

"Dean..." Sam whined. The elder Winchester was actually a bit taken aback by his tone of voice. Sam didn't whine, hadn't since he'd been a toddler. Complained? Yes. Bitched? Frequently. Brooded? Always. But he didn't whine.

Dean didn't respond, he just put an arm around Sam, and dragged him to his feet. For all his complaints, Sam certainly lacked the energy to actually fight him on the matter.

They made it back to the bed with little trouble. Sam collapsed immediately.

"Hey, Dean," Sam called out.

"Yeah?" He responded, taking up the same position he had been in before Sam's stomach decided to revolt.

"I don't feel so good."

Dean chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, I noticed."

"No, I mean..." He trailed off, a hand rose to his head, rubbing absently. "I didn't feel this crappy before. It just kinda...hit all at once, ya know?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Being sick does that to ya." His voice was still gentle. "You'll feel better after you've slept. It's been a busy couple of days."

"We like busy..." Sam mumbled, but was already drifting off.

His hand was clenched tightly around a fistful of pillow. The other arm was squished between his side and Dean's.

The older brother meant to get off the bed. Had intended to, really. But when he made a move to do so, Sam's sleep-filled moan had stopped him at once.

His sick, tired, little brother had curled into his side, as he hadn't since they were children. Dean bit his lip at how vulnerable Sam was. How much pain he had to be in to do that, even in his sleep.

Dean found he could not bring himself to move away from Sam. So he simply laid down next to him, letting Sam take comfort in the feeling of a human body next to his own. Never admitting that he needed it just as much.

Occasional human contact - the good kind, not the threatening kind - was needed. By everyone.

With that thought planted firmly in his mind, Dean let Sammy's shallow breathing lull him into a blissful sleep.

They wouldn't talk about it, because they never did. But for now, for this, that was okay. Because actions spoke louder than words, and memories, ultimately, were all that were ever left at the end of the road.

Fin.


End file.
